


Under the Waves

by johnwatso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally makes the decision to end his life. John helps with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t even an _event._ Just a simple, single decision. One minute Sherlock is looking at different kinds of dirt through his microscope, the next he’s sitting in his room, looking at the pills gathered in his hand. He doesn’t think, “I’m going to die,” or even, “I want to die,” because it isn’t dramatic (not like all the times he’s thought about it before). As he swallows them, one by one by one, he only feels calm. This is the right decision. 

 He has 60 to 75 minutes, he knows. Not long enough to be found - he’s always been alone - but long enough that he can write a last note.

_I’m sorry._

_It just wasn’t feasible to face the unbearable doldrums of reality anymore._

_-SH_  

He leaves it on his bedside table, where he knows it will be found, along with his body. The blanket settles over him and it’s warm, like being cocooned in his goodbye. He’d never imagine it could be so easy. He always thought there would be more tears, more drama, even more catharsis. This is nothing like his fantasies of drowning, the water cleaning his soul while it washes through and burns his lungs. He imagined he’d jump off a bridge, hit the freezing waves and know death. In the end, it’s far too much effort. Everything has become too much effort these days. He barely makes it into the shower most mornings. Never leaves the house. Even his brain has slowed down, filled with syrup and cotton, thoughts floating by barely if at all. Most days, he lies down and stares, filling the empty hours with the barest stimuli possible. When he does manage to sleep, it’s dreamless, a brief twilight that he craves more than anything because being anything but awake is a more preferable state. 

He has spent his whole life on the spectrum of this. The misery that sometimes overwhelms, other times recedes. Knows by now that there isn’t more than this. There never has been. As a child, he was the same, always on the fringes of the playground, his nose in a book, his head in the clouds. If he tries to gather up his happy memories, they’d fit on one hand.  

Adolescence and beyond, drugs helped. For a while. Eventually, the after-effects made it abundantly clear that it wasn’t something to pursue - why make it even worse? He knew enough about his brain to know that he couldn’t go on that way for much longer, so he stopped. Almost didn’t have it in him to do it alone, but in the end, he managed, as always. 

Then the cases helped, and finally John; companionship, security, knowing that when the melancholy itched at him so badly that he had to get out of bed at 4am and play his violin, someone would come down and scold him, or just make some tea and roll his eyes (John was always unpredictable, even to Sherlock). Very clever mysteries could make him shine brighter for longer, prolonging the inevitable crash that left him wanting… anything. He’d lie on the couch and sulk and John would, again, either scold him, or just make some tea and roll his eyes. 

Two years away was inconvenient, but the prospect of coming back, of having a _home_ to return to, made it easier. The days he spent in stillness, waiting for a lead to pan out, were torment, but the thought of the safe place awaiting him when he was done allowed him to forge on. 

Lately, the creeping, crawling emptiness wouldn’t abate. He took on too many cases. No cases at all. Socialised. Stayed indoors. Nothing helped. Not even a brief flirtation with his former addiction. Every morning, he'd open his eyes and, when his brain turned on, it’d be right there beside him again. More often than not, and especially of late, he’d just bury his face under the duvet again, hope for sleep to wash over him.  

He’s had other episodes before this, but nothing as severe. Nothing that left him wanting, day in and day out, to fall into oblivion. Nothing that made simple things like eating and sleeping a near impossibility. He’s always played hard and fast with those things, but he had the option. Now, there are no choices to make - he can’t stomach food, even when he tries. He’s lost one and a half stone just recently. The cotton filling his mind expands every morning, when restless sleep never restores him. 

Every other time, he felt an agitation in his core, but now, he can’t even muster the energy. Everything is tiring. Just being alive. Breathing. Existing.  

All the nothingness catches up. There’s nowhere to run, nothing to do. He doesn’t want to fear consciousness itself anymore. 

His eyes are heavy and he lets them close. Just a little while longer.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s very far away, but Sherlock can hear Mrs Hudson talking, frantic. He’s being moved, being asked questions. He’s just so tired.

—————

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, Sherlock is semi-awake. They wheel him out and he sees Mycroft and then John. They both look very grave. He opens his mouth to tell them that he’s sorry, but he feels swollen everywhere. They follow until they can’t anymore, at which point he’s behind closed doors with a nurse and a doctor. More questions. The doctor tells him that he needs to swallow a tube, sticks it up through his nose and down his throat. He gags a few times, but eventually just swallows and swallows until he’s filled with it. It feels like forever until finally the doctor pulls it out. Pain everywhere. Sleep.  
  
————— 

There’s murmuring and beeping and _noise_ all around him when Sherlock wakes up. He can barely move because his body is attached to machinery all over. Electrodes on his chest, pulse oximeter on his finger, IV in his elbow, sphygmomanometer around his upper arm. He feels like an experiment, with his own nurse watching him from the middle of the room. Intensive care unit. There’s a vague itching under his skin. It’s 4am. He tries to sleep some more, but it never comes. Too much noise, outside and internally.

At 6am, his doctor comes.

“How are you, Mr Holmes?” He doesn’t even look up from the chart. 

Sherlock just hums in reply.

“We’re going to move you to a private room in the general ward. A psychiatrist will see you there,” he clips out in a bored monotone while he takes some notes. Moves on to the next patient.

—————

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, Sherlock is moved to his private room. As they wheel his bed under the fluorescent lights and panel ceiling, he takes stock of his body. His throat is a little sore, but everything else feels fine. Besides his head, of course, which is throbbing and produces a static-like shift every time he tries to think of anything beyond existing stimuli. He can’t think of what led him here, or if he’s sorry. Nothing but panels and nurses and footsteps.

The room is small but agreeable. Much better than the chaos of the ICU. He wouldn’t, but once the door is closed with him alone on the inside, he feels as though he could cry. Instead, he drifts off into a troubled nap, fragments of dreams on the periphery, never quite reaching his subconscious projector. 

Mycroft is there when he wakes. He’s sitting in the chair right beside the bed, speaking low into his phone.

“…and we shall have to move that to a later date. I have to go.”

\- which is as close as Mycroft has ever gotten to saying _I love you_ , so Sherlock shifts up the bed a little bit, ready to be the subject of his scrutiny.

“Sherlock,” he nods, looking more haggard than Sherlock can ever remember.

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering, so he proceeds.

“If you needed… That is, if you need…” Mycroft looks down at his nails, at the floor, at anything that isn’t Sherlock.

Silence.

Mycroft decides that’s satisfactory, as he nods once and rises. Before leaving the bedside, though, he sets his hand on the bed beside Sherlock’s. They both look down at the gesture before he turns on his heel and leaves. 

—————

He argues with the nurse over lunch, which he refuses to eat. The food feels grey before it even hits his palate. He tries to explain this to her, but she won’t have it. Insists that he eat. In the end, he takes a few bites of the meat, mixing it into the lumpy mashed potato, and she seems happy enough.

Finally, John visits. Waits at the door tentatively. Sherlock hasn’t seen him in two weeks and three days. He looks exactly the same, though, which comforts him in a way that he can’t explain or fathom. 

“How are you feeling?” John asks, and Sherlock can tell that it isn’t what he wants to say, but it’s all he _can_ say.

“Mmfine.”

John is looking everywhere except in his eyes, so Sherlock looks down at the floor. Counts the tiles visible from the bed. 

“Sherlock. You could have called. Texted. Anything. You know that, don’t you?” John finally manages to utter. His voice is soft, gentle.

“I’m. I’m sorry,” is all Sherlock can think to reply although, as usual, it’s inadequate.

“Don’t be. There isn’t anything to be sorry for.” 

Sherlock doesn’t think he means it, but he’ll take it anyway. Before he can muster up anything in response, the door opens and a middle-aged-married-one-no-two-kids-workaholic doctor comes in. His psychiatrist.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes, I’m Dr Jacet. Did Dr Kempton tell you I was coming?”

Sherlock nods. 

“I’ll. I’ll be down at the coffee shop,” John says and leaves.

Private time. Sherlock can think of nothing worse than having to bare his soul to this stranger. Having to answer questions that he doesn’t have the answers to. He’s just trying to get by, these days.

“How are you?” Dr Jacet asked, and Sherlock wants to roll his eyes, but restrains himself. She seems to notice the hesitance, though, because she keeps talking, leaving the pointless question unanswered. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”

“To what end?” Sherlock snaps back. 

To her credit, Dr Jacet doesn’t even flinch, although Sherlock can see that she’s slightly shaken. Starts asking a bunch of inane questions about his job, marital status, birth date. Sherlock answers them all with the barest amount of enthusiasm.

“Is this your first attempt at taking your own life?”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to be shocked. He knows, of course he does, that that’s what’s happened, but for it to be stated so plainly, now hanging in the air between them, feels… it can’t be real. 

“Yes,” he answers through clenched teeth.

“Have you been previously diagnosed with a mental health condition?”

Sherlock just glares. Unfortunately, Dr Jacet seems particularly adept at maintaining eye contact for extended periods of time, so he finally relents.

“When I was sixteen.”

“And that diagnosis was?” Her pen is hovering above her notepad, ready to take down the history of his pain as though it’s nothing more than a by-the-way note.

“None of your business,” he replies. More glaring on both sides.

“Look, Mr Holmes, I know this is uncomfortable, but we do need to do this. You tried to end your life last night. That means we probably have to admit you to a psychiatric unit.”

Panic spikes in Sherlock’s chest. “No. No hospitals. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Your being here would indicate otherwise.”

Sherlock thinks it’s a fair point, but still doesn’t want to relent.

“I’ve seen a psychiatrist. Prior to this. You can ask her for all the details. Meanwhile, the man you saw, the one who just left - he’s a doctor. He can look after me. At home.”

“He lives with you?”

“Well, no, but -“

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go, then.”

“So if he did. Live with me. That would be alright?”

“I’d have to discuss it with him first, of course. But we might be able to arrange something. You’d have to agree to certain conditions, though.”

“Like what?”

“I think you’d better come and see me twice a week. Do you have a psychologist?”

Sherlock just looks at her.

“It might be a worthwhile idea to find you one. Someone to talk to.

“I don’t need someone to _talk to_ ,” Sherlock sneers. “I’m _fine._ ”

Dr Jacet looks at him, and he recognises the expression. Deducing. He supposes it’s something psychiatrists have to do in their daily profession.

“Would it be alright if I went and spoke to your doctor friend now? He said he was popping off to the coffee shop, didn’t he?”

Sherlock waves his hand. A dismissal. He’s terribly tired, and this insufferable woman is making him feel worse by the minute. Her very presence is draining. 

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she says and leaves. Sherlock hopes she's not a woman of her word.

 


	3. Chapter 3

So it’s settled. Dr Jacet (unfortunately) came back, told Sherlock that John agreed to move back in. She made sure to use the word _temporarily_ a lot. This is a _temporary_ arrangement. John will be home _temporarily_. He will need to see her twice a week on a _temporary_ basis. She also spoke with his previous psychiatrist. Asked more questions. Sherlock was more difficult than usual. He’s tired. He’s in pain. He’s broken.

When she leaves, John comes in with a cup of takeaway coffee. He smiles weakly.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, looking at him in earnest. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to stay in a psychiatric clinic. Would’ve left. Caused a fuss.

“No problem,” John says, but his eyes are on the floor, on the chair, on the bed. “When are they letting you go?”

“Tomorrow morning, before eleven. 

“I’ll be ‘round to fetch you.”

“Ta.”

And that’s it. The span of all the things they have to say to each other right now. It’s awkward, the way John’s being so amenable, the way neither of them will say a word about why Sherlock is here. Sherlock knows it isn’t John’s responsibility to open that conversation, so he leaves it hanging in the air. All the things they won’t say (they’ve acquired a lot).

After a while, John leaves and it’s time for more lumpy supper. Under the scornful eye of the staff, Sherlock shovels some of it down. Shovels his feelings down, too. Because he isn’t sure what they are, exactly. Is he sad that he tried to die? Sad that he lived? Sad at the fact of life itself? He thinks it’s probably all of them. 

He stares at the wall across from him for the longest time, trying to make sense of the fading paint. Trying to make sense of anything that isn’t his own mind.

—————

He wakes up feeling slightly better. Only slightly. Some of the fuzz that was preventing any thinking has diminished. He thinks about the days to follow. The emptiness of them now being raided by the questions and demands that will surely follow. Psychiatric care. Concerned conversations. Sherlock wants no part of it. He wonders what’s in store for him in the near future, with John being there. He’s grateful to him for providing his escape from a clinic, but he doesn’t want to be babied, as though he needs _looking after_. He’s never liked that.  

John arrives shortly after ten, when they’re busy discharging him. He looks as though he barely slept, but Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. 

“Ready?” he asks, and they’re off. 

They hardly say anything to each other at all, not even in the cab ride to Baker Street. It’s awkward in a way that he’s never felt with John. They’ve sat in companionable silence on many, many occasions and neither of them felt the need to fill it with hollow chatter. But now, Sherlock almost feels as though he wants to say something. Small talk. Anything to make this feeling go away. Nothing useful springs to mind, though. He could never talk to John about the weather or current affairs (unless it was for a case). 

The space between them is far too great, and Sherlock knows it’s his fault, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He can barely _think_. Maybe he’ll feel better after a nap.

—————

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his eyes to John peering down at him. He fell asleep on the couch. 

“Sherlock, it’s been four hours. Thought you might want to eat something,” John’s voice is tender and soft. 

Sherlock just grumbles in reply, rolls over with his face to the back of the couch to sleep some more. He hears John sigh behind him, but he’s so far away. He’s just tired.

—————

Over dinner, John forces Sherlock to eat. It tastes like ash. His head feels so muddled up and empty at the same time, and he can’t handle a second more of it. When he’s done, he hands John his near-empty plate and announces that he’s going to bed. John looks uncertain, but allows for it.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Sherlock hears him say before he closes the door to his bedroom.

—————

Sherlock wakes up in the middle of the night, checks his alarm clock. 2:25am. Of course. He knows by now that sleep won’t return, so he decides to get up and move to the sitting room, if only for some cleaner, less stifling air. He’s surprised to see John on the couch, a cup of tea in hand, wearing baggy boxer shorts and a soft cotton tee. He looks as awful as Sherlock feels.

“You okay?” he asks when Sherlock comes into the room.

“Fine.” 

Sherlock sits on his chair, tucking his legs in front of him, his arms encircling them. He feels safer this way, less exposed. 

“How’re you feeling since… You know.”

For reasons he can’t explain, John’s unwillingness to say the words - to say _since you tried to kill yourself_ makes Sherlock’s chest feel tight and tears spring to his eyes. He wills them away, but lately, he can’t really do much to control it. He balls his hands up into fists and smashes them against his eyelids, hissing through his teeth.

“Hey. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing,” John says from the couch, his voice so gentle, so considerate, that it makes Sherlock break even more. A sob escapes him and, after that, it’s fair game. He can do nothing to prevent the floodgates opening and, soon enough, he’s hyperventilating with his sorrow, blubbering and choking while he holds his hands against his eyes, trying desperately not to appear pathetic, but somehow not even caring as much as he should. 

John stands, walks over, stops behind Sherlock, puts his hand on his shoulder. The contact helps, a little. It makes Sherlock feel less like he’s floating away with grief.

“It’s going to be okay,” is all he says, but it means everything to Sherlock, who’s never even had as much. 

Apparently, Sherlock is a never-ending reserve of tears, because he can’t stop. It feels like hours, and John just stands there, never moving his hand, which slowly soothes circles over Sherlock’s dressing gown. A safety net to catch him. 

“I’m. I’m sorry,” Sherlock eventually says, the worst of it over. He rubs at his tired eyes, uselessly trying to hide the evidence.

John just rubs his shoulder in response, rubs up until his hand is on Sherlock’s neck. Tucks Sherlock’s curls behind his ear. They stay in silence for an eternity, until Sherlock finally falls asleep, slouching in his chair, the relief of slumbering oblivion washing over him.


	4. Chapter 4

_He’s almost at the ocean floor. In every direction, blue. Blue above. Blue below. Blue surrounding. He knows, logically, that his lungs should be burning, filling up with the saltwater, but he breathes under the waves, floating way beneath the surface. Heavy. He can see that there’s life beyond the water top, but he’ll never access it. He’ll never be able to live there, out of the sea. The best he can hope for is to continue breathing underwater for the rest of his days._

Sherlock wakes with a start, sweaty and disoriented - he isn’t in his bed. He’s crumpled into his leather chair, his body folded small enough to fit sideways. Every muscle aches. When his breathing has returned to normal, he stretches out, looking around for John. It must be late morning, but John isn’t in the living room or the kitchen. He decides to take a bath, relax his cramped muscles.

He runs the water and, while he mindlessly lets his fingers skim along the top of the bath, he thinks about the past few days. For the first time, his mind is relatively unclouded. The reality of what he tried to do hits him, right in his chest, and he’s surprised. Yes, it was his decision, a final one, but it also feels as though it wasn’t him. If he had a choice, right now, he wouldn’t make the same call. And therein lies the problem with suicide (one of them, at least): the permanence of it doesn’t account for the transience of emotions. In the moments leading up to it, Sherlock was sure that he couldn’t. go. on. for one second longer. With everything inside of him, he absolutely _knew_ that there was no way he could live out every single day anymore. The unbearable weight of his melancholy forbade it. Each morning, upon awakening, the dread that pooled in his stomach wouldn’t leave and he didn’t want to do it the next morning. Just decided. Of course, he had thought about it many, many times before then, but that time was different, somehow. Like every moment of pain culminated in a final solution - one he thought was right at the time. He just didn’t have it in him to continue the facade of living; going through the motions only to feel as though he was drowning in every single way. 

Settling into the bath, Sherlock thinks about the consequences of his decision. Not only does he see himself differently, but he’s sure others will, too. Mycroft, for one. Bigger, still, John. He has always seen suicide as a weakness - part of why he never indulged in it before - but he wants to somehow explain that this wasn’t a weak point. It was strength. And courage. The courage to actually _do_ it was huge. He knows he doesn’t deserve any medals, but he doesn’t want to be pitied and looked down on. Anything but that. He wishes there was some way to make it go away. To have either died that night or to sweep it from existence. The fact of it. 

It’s to these thoughts that he drifts off, the thick, humid air lulling him into a drowsy state. 

—————

In the background of his dreamless slumber, there’s a banging. An urgency. As he wakes up, he realises that it’s in the natural that it’s happening. 

“Sherlock!” John is shouting outside, amidst the banging and suddenly, the door flings open violently.

Sherlock, startled, moves to cover himself in a flash, bringing his knees up under his chin.

“John! What the h-“ 

“I’ve been knocking on the door for ages! I was worried, you idiot! Why didn’t you answer?” John is all flustered and breathless, more frantic than Sherlock has ever seen him. Red and hot and panicked.

“I- I must have fallen asleep.”

John rakes his fingers through his hair, exhaling loudly, letting go of some of the tension. Sherlock feels… guilty, he thinks. He knows why John was worried, and he didn’t mean to frighten him, but this is exactly the kind of thing he wanted to avoid - being minded like a baby. 

“John. I just fell asleep. That’s all,” Sherlock says, his voice in a calming monotone. 

“You frightened me, Sherlock, I… Especially so soon after… Shit,” John curses, shaking his head.

“I fell asleep,” he repeats, becoming upset.

“Well, you need to think about how your actions might affect someone else,” John replies, and it’s cold, probably even colder than he intended.

Sherlock just stares at him. John sighs, dropping his gaze.

“Some decisions need to be made without the consideration of others, especially when it involves oneself solely,” Sherlock finally says, and if John tries to be cold, Sherlock can be colder. 

John’s eyes snap up, unmasked rage across his features. “Involves oneself solely? So your decision the other night involved only you, is that right?”

“Correct.”

“Right. Great, yeah, just great. So if you’d. If you’d have died, nobody else would have been affected,” John is dripping with sarcasm, his left hand clenching dramatically. “Typical,” he punctuates, more to himself. 

“I realise it may do, but, seeing as I’m the sole proprietor and sufferer of my _illness_ , I think that choice should fall on me and me alone.” 

John looks at him, considering something. Eventually, he huffs and walks out, slams the door.

Sherlock unfolds his legs, sinks lower into the bath. Into his shame.

—————

Later that evening, John is sitting in his chair quietly, reading some inane volume or other. Sherlock is in his classic reclining position on the couch, in fresh pyjamas. They’ve just eaten dinner in non-companionable silence and Sherlock is wondering how best to resolve the situation he currently finds himself in. Who knew that trying to end one’s life would make life itself even worse. Best not to dwell on that now.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock turns his head slightly, not meeting John’s eyes. There’s too much anger in his voice, still. 

“What you said earlier. About you being the only one suffering through your illness. I realise that that’s true, or that it feels true, but… you know that you could reach out. In all this time, you could have reached out to me. Or to anybody, really. You’re not as alone as you think.”

“Did you get that from a Hallmark card?” Sherlock responds viciously. He hates being mothered this way. Patronised. Pitied.

“Don’t be a dick. Just… All I’m saying is that you didn’t need to bear all the misery on your own. If you had talked to me - or someone - maybe you wouldn’t have found yourself making the same choices. That’s all.” And, to emphasise the point, he re-opens his book. Discussion over. 

“Caring, John, is not an advantage,” Sherlock pulls up Mycroft’s signature phrase, understanding its meaning more than ever. For John to care for him, in any way, will not benefit either of them. He needs to be free to make his own decisions, whether it may affect someone else or not. He needs to be able to have an escape plan should the thundering misery continue to overshadow every moment of his waking life (and sometimes sleeping, too). He needs to do whatever he needs to do. 

“You get _that_ from a Hallmark card?”

John huffs out a breath. It seems to pain him almost physically, being so open.

“Remember, Sherlock, that this isn’t new for me. That this has happened before. Like a nightmare. Only this time, I didn’t need to watch. I know what it feels like, when you die. I know, for a fact, that it does involve me. That I’d be deeply affected by it.” 

“I can’t promise that my future actions won’t affect you. I can’t promise that, right now.”

“Jesus, Sher-“ John is exasperated by this point. “Are you trying to say you’ll try it again? Because I _will_ have you hospitalised, in that case.”

“Relax, John. I have no desire, right this second, to take my own life. I only mean that, should the insatiable need arise, I can not promise you, even in this moment, that I won’t want to pursue it.” 

“Should the insatiable need arise, Sherlock, I expect you to reach out to me. I expect you to call me, or text, or come over. Anything.” 

“Come over to your miserable flat? Like that’s going to help.”

“What does my flat have to do with anything?”

“It would make a lot more sense if you’d have just moved here. After Mary.”

“Maybe to you.”

“If you cared so much, why wouldn’t you? Why would you have left?”

“Left?” John is so irate that he stands up, can’t keep still. “That’s bloody rich.”

“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic.” 

“No, that’s more your style.”

They stare each other down, neither willing to go further. It’s dangerous, this back and forth. There’s too much that’s never been revealed to make it okay.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Sherlock barely breathes out. He doesn’t even mean to say it, but his defences don’t mean much when he can barely _feel_ anything more than empty. 

“What?” John asks, but Sherlock is sure he heard him.

“After… everything with Mary. Why didn’t you come back?”

John, standing next to his chair, looks to the window, rakes his hands through the hair at the nape of his neck. Would that Sherlock could do it for him.

“Sherlock, I just need a word from you. Just promise me that, whenever it happens, if it happens again, and hopefully it won’t, you’ll contact me instead of doing… something stupid.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why!” John explodes, throwing his hands in the air.

Sherlock can understand his frustration, he really can. In every movie and novel, the answering statement is always a promise, a guarantee that someone will _be there for_ someone else. He knows this. But, after everything that happened with Mary, after the pain he saw on John for months after, he swore to himself that he’d never lie to John. And he intends not to. Which is why he can’t make hollow guarantees - even if it’s the _done_ thing.

“Because I don’t know how I’ll feel. I don’t know how bad it will be. How desperate it will become. I don’t know if, one night, when the rest of London is peacefully in their beds beside their loved ones, I’ll be in turmoil inside, with no solution. I don’t know that the permanent solution won’t be the only one I can see. You don’t understand how it feels. It’s -“

“Believe me, I do. I definitely understand how it feels. I’ve had a loaded gun in my desk drawer, ready to go. I’ve thought of the bullet that would end it all, dreamed about it, yearned for it. I just never got there. I get it. I just don’t get why you won’t _ever_ take the hand that’s offered to you. If I’d been offered a hand, I’d forget the _permanent solution_ , as you put it. Did do, in fact. The night I moved in here, that option became null. Didn’t need it anymore.”

Sherlock is surprised. He knew, by the way he carried himself, that John was depressed after Afghanistan, but he never imagined the extent of it. It’s always a difficult deduction - a person’s true emotional state. It’s the one thing that can be hidden, at least a little bit. 

“What if I swear to contact you? What then? You won’t - can’t - be there the next time, and the next. I’m alone, John. I’ve always been alone. I’m fine with it, and I can’t change it, but it does alter the outcome here. I can’t always rely on you - on someone else - to be there and fix things for me. I know that because I’ve tried it, and it never worked out. If I can’t do this myself, I can’t do it.”

“It isn’t about _relying_ on someone, it’s about trusting someone enough to help you with the noise inside your head.”

“I don’t think anybody could help with that.”

“Well, I could try.” John has come up to the couch, and kneels down in front of it. He takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his and looks at him earnestly. Sherlock has to bite his bottom lip as hard as he can to keep from crying.

He looks down at their hands, considering.

“If I moved back here for a while. Would that help?” John asks, mostly to the ground.

Sherlock huffs. Even in this moment, even now, he’s too proud to say _yes, more than anything, it would probably help to have you back here, to be able to hear you making your stupid cups of tea while I’m trying to have a lie in, to listen to you whistling while you wash the dishes when I’m trying to do an experiment, to hear you getting ready for bed while I’m in my mind palace. Nothing could possibly help more._ Instead, he says nothing. But, as ever, John _knows_.

“Right. I’ll bring round some more of my things and we can see how it goes.”

Sherlock nods.

They spend the rest of the evening in a comfortable silence, orbiting around each other the way that they used to.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up with the feeling of someone crushing him. There’s blind panic, one he experiences every so often, and always only ever upon waking. It takes him longer than it should to realise that John is on the bed next to him, his arms holding him down, making soft, soothing _shhh_ ing noises. Takes even longer to comprehend it and jerk his body upwards.

“What- “

“You were having a nightmare. Screaming blue bloody murder.”

Sherlock focuses on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to dissipate some of the (logically speaking, but when is the mind ever purely logical) irrational fear surging through his veins. Although he can’t recall yelling out, he wants to scream some more, relieve the panic in some way. He feels as though he’s dying, like he will never, ever be able to get enough oxygen.

“There’s not - there isn’t enough air. There’s not enough air!” he snaps at John, desperately clawing onto his t-shirt. How does John not realise that the air in the room has all evaporated? He’s making choking noises, trying to gain any bit of breath that he can.

“Sherlock,” John is firm, places his hand on top of Sherlock’s on his chest. Not to move it off, just to placate. “Sherlock, there is more than enough air. I need you to breathe for me, as deep as you can. In. Then out. Let’s try it now. In… That’s it. Out…”

Sherlock focuses all his attention on John’s instructions, breathing with him. He can feel John’s heart thumping through the thin cotton of his faded grey pyjama tee, and it helps. Feels grounding, somehow. His own heart is thumping out an unharmonious disaster, but he ignores it, ignores the sensation of being too far underwater in his ears, ignores the waves of nausea coming from his gut. Focus on John. Focus. John.

“That’s it. Much better. You alright?” John looks so concerned that Sherlock can’t help the little tears that escape his eyes. The aftershock of the epinephrine won’t allow for it.

“Need anything?” he asks, and reaches up to brush Sherlock’s curls from his forehead, where they’re plastered with sweat. He lets his hand sweep down to his cheek, and Sherlock leans his head against his shoulder, trapping John’s hand there. Closes his eyes. Breathes deeper. Breathes in salty skin and soap.

John just responds by rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, huffing out a soft, “Sherlock,” and not breaking their contact. 

Sherlock just closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of John, willing his heart to calm down. Willing his muscles to relax. John doesn’t move either, and Sherlock is eternally grateful for this. John is his life raft. John is his compass. He’s everything to Sherlock right now, who can’t hold himself together at all. Feeling bold through the adrenaline, Sherlock turns his head, just slightly, and places a barely noticeable kiss to John’s palm. John only responds by stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbones, again and again. Sherlock has never been more grateful for this wonder of a human.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. “I hate seeing you this way. You’re… You’re a brilliant man. You’re going to be a brilliant man again. This big brain of yours,” he emphasises by pulling both hands up to cradle Sherlock’s head, “is going to get well, and it’s going to do even greater things than before.”

Sherlock sags forward into John’s hold, allowing more tears to stream out of his closed eyes. John uses his thumbs to wipe them away before they can fall down his cheeks. It feels as though the thing he’s been missing - the one that may help him cope with his illness - is coming together. He feels less lost than before. The intimacy of such a small act - of saying _I’m here now_ with hands alone - is monumental in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s never had it before, nothing even similar. Everybody always stayed away from him, chastising him for his “sulks” and avoiding him when he shut them out. He deserved it all, he knows, but, at the back of his mind, in his most secret place, there was always a longing for someone to break the barrier, to ignore the walls he put up and enter anyway. To just be there, in any way, shape or form. The only one who ever came close is John. Not even previous friends - not even Victor - could manage it. Sherlock supposes he was always just too good at closing everybody out. To the point where it wasn’t worth it for them to persist in spite of it.

Eventually, the position of their bodies is awkward, John’s torso twisted as it is from where he’s sitting, and he nudges Sherlock lightly with his leg, until he moves up to the left side of the bed. He climbs in after Sherlock, tucking himself into the duvet and turns off the lamp.

“Goodnight,” he says simply, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On top of it all, he reaches for Sherlock’s hand under the duvet, grips it lightly in his own and shuffles a bit, making himself comfortable for sleep.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, just focuses everything on the contact, willing himself to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun will be rising soon. Sherlock can feel it somehow, before he even opens his eyes and sees through the sheer layer of curtain that this is the case. John is still in his bed, lying in almost exactly the same position as before. Sherlock, ever the tornado, has kicked the covers half off him and has his back turned to John. However, it’s important to Sherlock that their hands are still joined, all ten of their fingers clasped together. It isn’t exactly a physically comfortable position, but Sherlock isn’t willing to let go.

He listens to the faint sounds of John breathing inside the room, and the dull sounds of traffic beginning outside. He used to love this time of the morning, when nobody else was awake but him.As a young adult, he’d only go to sleep around this time, waiting to see the sunrise after getting up to all sorts the night before. 

These days, he dreads waking up with the sun, because it means he isn’t asleep anymore, and not being asleep means being cognisant of life itself; of the harsh reality of all the time he has to trudge through. Right now, though, he’s content somehow. This particular sunrise feels like a new beginning - its metaphorical use come to life. There’s uncharted territory that has been crossed with John. There’s the simple fact of his hand, now loosely cradled in John’s, and John’s in his. A tiny spark that couldn’t cure him, he knows, but it could be there while he awaited his cure. 

John isn’t his knight in shining armour come to save him from the lonely tower. He isn’t even the dragon that might whisk him away by chance while trying to destroy him. He’s just there, along with Sherlock, in the tower, awaiting freedom, too. Sherlock sees now how that might be useful. Not only to be loved, but to be cared for. To have somebody to perhaps rely on when it becomes too stifling. The pedestrian custom of coupledom seems enticing now. Sentiment, probably, but it seems to work for others (the ones that don’t murder their spouses in a fit of jealousy, that is). Works for mummy and daddy.

“I was scared,” John says suddenly.

Sherlock hadn’t realised that John was awake. He says nothing, just waits.

“I was scared, not even that you were going to die, but that you so desperately didn’t want to live. I hated myself for everything that came before. For not being there. For being there and not being helpful or not being good enough or what you needed. For blaming you and beating you and hating you and… and loving you and never saying so,” he’s sniffling quietly between words, and Sherlock knows he’s crying. He squeezes his hand lightly, urging him to continue, letting him know he’s listening. “I think that’s the thing that really stood out for me. That I loved you. That I love you and I never had the chance to tell you. That it might have made it easier, somehow. Because, somewhere, I knew you might feel the same, but I couldn’t bring myself… Especially after everything that happened, with Mary… I couldn’t bring myself to allow it to happen. I couldn’t love you openly, because it meant admitting that I’d loved you all along, and that every time I told Mary I loved her…” He’s weeping openly now.

Sherlock turns around, looks at him. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Every time I told Mary I loved her,” he continues, and Sherlock can tell he’s being brave, so he squeezes his hand tighter, holds it to his chest, “I was… I wasn’t lying, not exactly. I did love her. But not the same way. It wasn’t the same, Sherlock.”

At that, John breaks down, allowing his tears to come freely, and turns to face Sherlock.

“John,” is all Sherlock can whisper before John gathers him in his arms and holds him, weeping. Sherlock hadn’t even realised it, but he’s crying, too, wetting John’s tee slightly at the shoulder.

“I was scared, too,” Sherlock whispers and John pulls away to hear him properly. He looks Sherlock in the eye, strokes a stray hair off his forehead. “I was scared to carry on. Every day. It’s been… it’s been unbearable.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asks, not accusing, but not soft either.

“I didn’t know how. We don’t say things. Not to each other. It’s so difficult for me to face you and tell you the way that I feel. If it was easy, I’d have done it years ago. I’d have looked you right in the eye and told you how much I loved you. How much I needed you. Need you, still.”

“I wish I’d had been here.”

“It’s not your fault that you weren’t. I never asked you to. I resented you every single minute for not being here, but didn’t think to ask you to come. I… You once said you find it difficult, this sort of thing. I do, too. After Mary was gone and everything got all mixed up, I knew I could never tell you how I felt. Because if I admitted that I wanted you, I thought you’d never forgive me. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having you in my life, in any capacity, even as friends.”

“Well, where do we go from here? What do you need, Sherlock? Tell me… I need you to tell me what it is you need. I’m a broken man, too, but maybe together, we can figure this out,” John says, running his hands through the hair on Sherlock’s temples.

“I only need you, John. I know it isn’t the answer, not quite, but it will help. Having someone there who knows… I think it will help.”

“I’ll be here,” John says, and kisses Sherlock lightly on the cheek, once, twice, and on the third try, Sherlock turns, allows him to graze his mouth instead. It’s enough for now. It’s enough in this moment. Sherlock curls himself into John’s arms and allows the feelings of relief to wash over his entire being. 


	7. Chapter 7

In the weeks that follow, there are many changes. Sherlock actively seeks recovery - hunts it, in fact, in much the same way that he would a clue or a suspect. It becomes his singular focus, even opting to ignore cases for the time being. He visits Dr Jacet twice a week, as agreed upon, and dutifully fills the prescriptions she sends him on his way with. She even manages to talk him into seeing a psychologist, and he actually finds it helpful, surprising himself by preferring Freudian psychoanalysis to trendier cognitive behavioral therapies - he finds it easier to talk about himself than to challenge himself in a way that makes him feel vulnerable and pressured. 

Things change with John, too. Every night, he falls asleep next to him and every morning, wakes up the same way. There are touches and light, featherlight kisses upon cheeks and brows and sometimes even lips that never linger but are filled with promise. He appreciates John being careful with him. He appreciates, too, hands that brush over hands in cabs and across tables and while walking side by side, but that’s as far as fingers explore. For now.

They even develop a morning routine of sorts. Sherlock usually wakes up first and makes the coffee, comes back to bed with it. While he’s on his phone, catching up on everything he missed while he was asleep, John stretches and goes to make the toast, which Sherlock dutifully swallows with his little white coated caplet and his augmenting off-white capsule. 

It’s easy and quiet, and it’s just what Sherlock needs to become the man he could barely remember being. He’s getting there.

One night, when London is winding down and so are they, Sherlock wishes John a good night and squeezes his hand once, ready to turn over. John grabs him before he can, not letting go of their joined hands.

“How are you feeling?” John asks him, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replies automatically.

“Really, though. It’s a real question.”

Sherlock thinks for a while.

“I am fine. Really,” he responds eventually.

John offers a small squeeze and lets go of his hand. “I’m glad,” he returns.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and it’s so small, even he himself can barely hear it.

“There’s no need.”

“I know. I know you think that, but I do mean it. I couldn’t… I don’t know that I would have been able to get here without you. And I don’t take that lightly.”

“I’m just glad to see you well. I’m glad to have my friend back,” John murmurs, and it sounds as though he’s trying too hard to sound casual. “I also know that you’ve been working hard to recover. I know firsthand that it isn’t easy; that you don’t just wake up one day with all the burdens lifted, but you’re doing it. That takes courage.”

Sherlock snorts. “I’d hardly call it courage. Necessity perhaps. It was this or…”

“I know. I just mean it’s not the easiest road to travel, that’s all.”

John turns onto his side, so that he’s facing Sherlock. Sherlock follows his lead, turns to face him, too.

“There’s something about you now that’s freer. Lighter somehow. I kind of envy it,” John remarks.

“It’s not mine alone. You can get there, too, you know.”

John chuckles in reply. “I suppose,” he says, and lifts his hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “I suppose I could work at it. It’s not too late for an old man like me.”

“You may be positively geriatric in your handling of all technology, but that doesn’t make you _old_ ,” Sherlock says, eyes sparkling.

They both giggle silently, the shared space comfortable and warm. A bubble of simplicity, where what came before and what may come after doesn’t matter, because what’s happening right now, between them, is far too significant to diminish.

John leans over and, almost as though it’s the easiest and most obvious thing to do, kisses Sherlock softly on his lips, pecking him lightly first and then letting his lips linger longer, moving his body closer.

Sherlock is slow to respond, but eventually does, tongue meeting tongue, running his hand up and down John’s side until John bends his arm to grab hold of his hand and intertwines their fingers. They kiss for long, languid minutes, time seeming to melt and bend as the connection between them only deepens. 

After a long while, John pulls away and looks in Sherlock’s eyes, smiling, and Sherlock smiles shyly back. It isn’t monumental and nothing feels as though it’s even changed much at all. It’s like falling into bed after a long day. It’s like eating the last piece of chocolate in the box. It’s like breathing. Like learning to breathe after forgetting how. 

For Sherlock, breathing isn’t all that boring anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on tumblr](http://johnwatso.tumblr.com)


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